


One More Day

by OutOfAutumn



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Post-Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:07:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfAutumn/pseuds/OutOfAutumn
Summary: Since his death, all Auguste has ever wanted is one more day of life. One more day to hug his little brother. One more day to tell him how proud he is.Auguste gets his day. Unfortunately, his soul has somehow ended up in the body of King Damianos, and it’s awkward to say the least.





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried while writing this, ya’ll. 
> 
> Don’t worry. By no means is this a “sad” fic. In fact, it was intended to be comedic. But there are a lot of emotional things that came to light while I was writing it, which I’m sure you will encounter as you read it (IF I did my job right). 
> 
> It's my headcanon that this would be the worst possible scenario for Auguste. Laurent mentions that he had “no instinct for deception”, so I figured he would be terrible at acting like someone else, especially his little brother’s lover. He would be about as terrible at it as Damen was at acting like he was not Damianos :P
> 
> I am not an expert in paranormal things. In fact, I hardly ever read or watch anything of the subject. So there are probably a few inconsistent ghosty things here. It’ll be fine. 
> 
> I am posting this in three different parts, since it’s so long. Part 2 will be a little bit shorter than the others, but that’s just how it worked out. I didn’t want to break it up in odd spots. Updates will be posted on Thursdays. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Auguste woke up to a sheet of white light blasting into his eyes.

This was not uncommon in the Great Beyond or, as a growing faction of people called it, Heaven. It was always ridiculously bright up here.

What _was_ uncommon was the fact that he had woken up at all. What _was_ uncommon was the surface beneath him: firm, yet pliant, the way he remembered beds to feel like. But that was silly. There were no beds in the Great Beyond, because there were no petty human imperfections such as hunger and exhaustion. No beds, and no sheets, though that’s what he thought he could feel lightly draped over his waist and tangled between his feet.

He opened his eyes.

He was staring at a bolt of purple silk. It was embroidered with something very familiar- the gold starburst emblem, which had flown on his own banners up until the day he died. There was something else. A lion, also embroidered in golden thread, its tail entwined so that the starburst became the tuft on the tip of its tail.

This itself was odd enough to make him pause. Then he realized that the silk he was looking up at was a canopy, and that that meant he was indeed lying on a bed.

He heard a soft, muffled sound next to him. He turned.

There was a young blonde man lying beside him. He was on his side with one hand tucked under his pale cheek, which was slightly flushed and mottled with sheet prints. A cloud of mussed yellow hair streaked the pillow beneath him. Long golden lashes rested in delicate curves on his cheeks. He was sleeping.

It was Laurent.

His little brother.

He hadn’t been this close to Laurent in about a year, since the ascension. Auguste had been given special permission to attend, and had spent the whole affair standing at his little brother’s side, wishing Laurent could hear his cheers and see the tears of joy he didn’t bother to hold back. Before that, the only times he’d seen Laurent in the past eight years were at his own gravesite in Arles, and occasionally at other small memorials that had been erected throughout Vere in his honor. It was always as though he were glimpsing Laurent through a light pink filter. He could see Laurent kneeling, could hear his soft words, could feel it if Laurent touched the crude stone statue at his grave. But he could not respond. Could never _touch._

Today there was no such pink filter. Only sunlight, and warmth, and _Laurent._

 _Little brother,_ he wanted to say. But he was so choked up that he knew the words would not make it out of him intact. Instead he grabbed Laurent’s shoulders and prepared to crush him into a bear hug, the way he’d wanted to do every second of the past eight years.

Two things happened at once. He saw his own arms, which were much darker and larger than they had been in life. Then he felt Laurent’s knees, which were suddenly - and with great force - rammed into his stomach.

“What is the matter with you?” Laurent groaned. He rolled over and took most of the sheets with him.

“What's the matter with _you_ ?” Auguste sputtered, clutching his gut. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth. The voice that came out of him was deeper than his own voice had ever been. _What the hell?_

“You crawled into bed at the crack of dawn, begged me to fuck, and now you’re waking me up _again?”_ Laurent hissed. “How are you supposed to run a kingdom if you can’t keep it in your pants? At least let me sleep so I can run mine!”

Laurent tightened the sheets around his shoulders and went still. Auguste stared at his back. He wanted to tell him to watch his mouth, but hearing his little brother utter such vulgarities had literally stolen the breath from his lungs. And he could still see his own arms lying against the white sheets. They were olive-colored and muscular, far more so than his own build - albeit impressive - could ever achieve. He lifted one of his hands and twisted it around. It was like a slab of dark clay.

Laurent rolled back over, showing Auguste his sleep-swollen face. “Sorry, was that too harsh?” He sounded a little sarcastic.

Auguste couldn’t say anything. Laurent was looking at him, _talking to him_ , as though his presence here was entirely expected.

Laurent laughed. “Oh, come now, Damianos. I know you aren’t _that_ sensitive.”

Auguste’s mind snagged on a single word: _Damianos._  “What did you just call me?”

“So we’re going to play this game now, are we? You pout until I apologize?”

“What are you-”

Laurent hitched himself up onto an elbow. Disturbed by the movement, the sheets slid off his torso, pooling at his waist. His cock was left covered, but the white satin did not leave much to the imagination. Auguste quickly averted his eyes.

“How is this for an apology?” Laurent asked. And leaned in for a kiss.

Auguste’s heart galloped. He hadn't felt a heart beat in eight years, but he still knew it was too fast. He saw Laurent’s lips approaching, saw his little brother’s eyes close at the anticipated contact.

The awful revelation hit him like a runaway chariot: _He thinks I'm Damianos. He thinks I'm his lover._

He backed away right before Laurent’s lips could touch his. Laurent, thrown off balance, had to splay his hand in front of him to avoid crashing to the sheets. 

“Damen,” Laurent said, with a slight laugh. “What has gotten into you?”

“Little brother,” Auguste said, “I-"

He stopped himself when he heard what came out of his mouth: _little brother._ Calculated, logical Laurent would never believe it.

Mercifully, Laurent showed no indication of having heard. A small furrow was growing between his golden brows. Auguste recognized that expression from childhood, and had to forcefully restrain himself from reaching out to smooth the little wrinkles that creased Laurent’s otherwise faultless skin. It was habit.

“Laurent,” Auguste said instead.

“Yes?”

“I am not feeling amorous this morning.” _In fact, all I feel like doing is trying to figure out what the hell is going on here._ “You may go back to sleep if you wish. I apologize for waking you.”

“Oh, I see,” Laurent said. Then, with enunciated precision, “Tease.”

“Laurent-"

Laurent wrapped the sheets back around himself and flopped back to the mattress. He rolled away from Auguste, hiding his face, but the heaving rise and fall of his chest was a clear signal of irritation.

If this were an ordinary day eight years ago, he would have done something obnoxious to make Laurent acknowledge him: breathed in his ear, tugged on his hair, tickled him. But this was far from an ordinary day. To extend this encounter was bound to lead to something even more uncomfortable than the almost-kiss. Arles was a breeding ground for misplaced gossip, and it wasn’t uncommon for courtiers to pass his gravesite talking about the coupling of King Laurent and King Damianos. He didn’t want a personal invitation to the “mythical lovemaking” and “foundation-shaking moans” the courtiers loved to speculate about.

He rose from the bed, though it made his chest hurt to move away from Laurent. It hurt to leave him angry like that, and it hurt to leave without hugging him and peppering his cheeks with kisses. Save that for later, when he’d figured out what the hell was going on. He wasn't sure where to go or what to do, but the only thing he could immediately think of was to visit his own gravesite, or one of his memorials. One of the places where the barrier between life and death was thin.

As he headed for the door, he noticed a gilded vanity mirror not far away. He held his breath and looked into it.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he still gasped.

The reflection staring back at him was unmistakable. It was the man he had faced on the battlefield almost exactly eight years ago. The man who had killed him. The man who often came to his gravesite alongside Laurent, kneeled beside him, rubbed his back if he got choked up.

It was Damianos of Akielos.

 _He_ was Damianos of Akielos.

He clambered for the door. Laurent spoke as he pulled it ajar.

“Where are you going?” His little brother asked, his voice slightly muffled by the sheets. He had rolled back over and was looking at him, still blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Auguste swallowed, composing himself, trying to eliminate the tremor that would surely be in his voice. “I just need some air,” he said, in that deep, foreign voice. “Please go back to sleep.”

For whatever reason, that drew a breathy laugh from Laurent. It was stiff and not entirely pleasant.

“Whatever you say, _Exalted,”_ he murmured, pulling the sheet over his head.

 

******

 

This was not the palace at Arles.

The white marble hallway was too simple. The crown molding, though lovely, was only minimally gilded. The silk tapestries were limited and tasteful, each depicting the lion and starburst hybrid he had seen on the canopy. Practical, but still exquisite.

He had no idea where he was.

Servants and courtiers bustled past him, giving perfunctory bows and murmurs of ‘ _Exalted’._ Some were carrying wooden bowls full of fruit and sweetmeats. Others toted bolts of silk and other decorative items. He wanted to stop one of them to ask if there was a memorial to Auguste of Vere here - a graveyard, even, if this strange palace did not honor dead Veretian royalty - but none of them would meet his eye. He knew this was Akielon protocol, but it seemed wildly impractical.

The courtiers were all moving in the same direction. He fell into step behind them, hoping the vein would lead to a central section of the palace. In Arles, his tomb was not far from the throne room. Perhaps here it be the same. But he wasn't sure how Damianos walked anywhere on these huge, clunky legs. He had to work very hard to keep from tripping over his feet, which seemed roughly the size of oars.

After a few minutes, an equally large man fell into step beside him.

“Good morning, Exalted,” the man said, giving a respectful nod.

“Good morning,” said Auguste. He tried to school his composure and stop looking around; Damianos of Akielos would not be confused in his own palace.

“You’re looking a little disheveled,” the man said, giving Auguste a sweeping, up-and-down glance.

Auguste followed the man’s eyes. His cheeks burned when he saw his own chiton, which was disarrayed and intermittently stained with a brownish liquid. His gigantic feet were bare. He didn’t know much about the typical dress of an Akielon king, but most of the passing servants were dressed better than him.

Fortunately, the man spoke before Auguste could be expected to come up with an explanation. “Didn't I warn you not to drink too much griva last night?” He asked.

“Yes,” said Auguste, wondering what _griva_ was, and if that was the reason for Damianos’s late night lust and, vicariously, Laurent’s testiness. “You did.”

The man frowned. “It put me at a distinct disadvantage, having my chambers next to yours. Next time you and the King of Vere decide to have a session of griva-fueled lovemaking, I would suggest the use of a gag.”

Auguste coughed. The man stared at him as he pounded on his chest, brow furrowed.

“You’d better get ahold of yourself before tonight,” he said, patting Auguste on the back. “The Akielon and Veretian nobility will be quite cross with you if you aren’t able to proceed with the ceremony. They have all traveled to Delpha for this very purpose.”

“Delpha?” Auguste asked, blinking the tears from his eyes. _Don’t you mean Delfeur?_ The question was swallowed by another round of coughs.

“Yes, Delpha. What, are you too hungover to know where you are and what is happening?” The man gestured at some of the servants, carrying candelabras and ribbons and flowers. “Are you sure you’re not still drunk? Why don’t you go back to your chambers and lay down?”

 _That’s the absolute worst thing to do, given the circumstances._ “Does Auguste of Vere have a shrine here?”

The man blinked. “Excuse me?”

Auguste swallowed the urge to grab the man’s shoulders and shout. “A memorial. For Auguste of Vere. Is there one?”

“Of course. Your consort insisted on it. But you-"

“Where is it?”

“In the terrace garden, where all of the other statues are. You know this. You've been there more than once.”

Auguste’s stomach clenched as he bit back a sigh. So at least there was hope. “Yes, now I remember. Too much grivard last night, I suppose.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You mean _griva?”_

“Yes, of course.” _Whatever._ “Please excuse me.”

He spun away, propelling himself into a deep alcove to escape the stream of courtiers. The man’s questions were getting a little too dangerous.

“Wait, Exalted-” But the man’s voice was swept away with the steady tide of courtiers, which was growing by the second. Whatever he had to say was clearly not important enough to risk being trampled to death, because he did not turn around.

Auguste receded into the shadows, pressed his back against the wall, and breathed. _Delpha._ He seemed to remember Laurent mentioning that name once or twice. In relation to what?

It really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered more than figuring out what the hell was going on.

 

******

 

When Auguste finally found the gardens, he remembered.

He'd been called to this memorial before, a couple of times. Time was irrelevant in the Great Beyond, but by his closest approximation it hadn't been that long ago. Perhaps three months. The first time Laurent had come alone and was very chatty, talking about this and that: how much he loved the new palace here at Delpha, his hatred of Arles, his hope to someday demolish that palace and use the bricks to build more practical structures, such as shelters for former slaves who were struggling to adapt to free life. The second time, Laurent had brought Damianos and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. As happy as it made Auguste to know that his little brother was in love, it felt obscene to watch them kissing and whispering sweet nothings, so he’d departed early on. Not without a huge, dopey smile that his parents and Orlant had prodded him about for hours.

The terraced gardens were lovely, though very Akielon, with an abundance of grapevines and babbling azure fountains. Only the pottery and the elaborate, arched trellises showed a touch of Veretian indulgence.

The intensity of the morning had left Auguste very little time to wonder what happened to King Damianos’s soul. That mystery was solved the instant he rounded the trellis and saw his own memorial statue, a life-sized masterpiece of marble in the very center of the gardens. Damianos was sitting in the bed of orange blooms beneath it. His face was in his hands and he was utterly naked, ringed by the rosy pink aura that always surrounded exonerated souls.

Auguste stopped. Pebbles crunched under his feet. Damianos looked up, and the expression that crossed his face was a chameleon of recognition, confusion, and ire.

He stood up and assumed what could best be described as a combat posture: legs spread wide, fists balled at his chest.  His lack of clothing would have been farcical, were he not so physically imposing.

“I don’t know who or what you are,” Damianos said, his voice deceptively calm, “But you have ten seconds to get out of my body.”

Auguste held up his hands. “Listen. I don’t know what’s going on any more than-”

Damianos lunged. Auguste closed his eyes and stood very still, waiting. A cold sheet passed through his body, the sensation collecting like condensation along his spine. Then he felt a pulling sensation along his back as Damianos came out the other side of him.

Auguste whirled around. Damianos had staggered face-first into a thorny bush, the branches bowed with ripe red berries.

Auguste winced. “If you’d just calm down, I could-”

Damianos pivoted and came at him again. Auguste sighed. Closed his eyes. Let the cold sheet fold throughout his body again.

When he turned around and opened his eyes, Damianos was standing with his back against the statue. He was looking at his hands, flipping them over and under, as though they were covered with fascinating patterns.

“I don’t understand,” Damianos said, staring down at his body. It was slightly transparent to Auguste’s eyes, but Damianos couldn’t see that. To Damianos’s own eyes, he looked entirely opaque, as Auguste knew well. “Why can’t I-”

“I can try to help,” said Auguste, “If you’ll just listen to me.”

Damianos looked up at him as though he were seeing him for the first time. His face was so pale that it bled through his olive complexion, making him look slightly gray.

“You woke up here, I assume?” Auguste asked.

Damianos nodded slowly.

“You woke up here, and tried to leave these gardens, but you could not. Any time you’ve tried, you’ve inexplicably ended up right back at the base of this statue. Any attempts to call for help are fruitless. It’s as though nobody can hear or see you.”

Damianos hesitated before nodding again. The thick muscles in his neck were clenched, and his jaw was tight.

“For whatever reason,” said Auguste, “I believe we have switched places.”

Damianos licked his lips. “What do you mean?”

“You see . . .” Auguste swallowed and cleared his throat. There really was no pretty way to say it. “I am dead. You are alive. And now it is . . . the opposite.”

Auguste watched as the words penetrated Damianos. He expected some variety of disbelief - it was a common form of denial among the living. What he didn’t expect was the outright horror that bled across Damianos’s face. It was as though he’d been expecting to hear this all along, yet still couldn’t take it.

Damianos gaped. “I’m . . . dead?”

“For lack of a better term, yes.”

Damianos sagged back against the statue. He covered his eyes with a hand, clearly attempting at some privacy, but the transparency of his body forbade it. He did not weep, but it looked like a colossal effort not to. He pressed his lips together. His adam’s apple bobbed.

Auguste watched him, heart dripping with pity. Maybe he should have said something: _it'll be alright,_ or _we’ll figure this out._ But Auguste could not be sure of either of those things, so he said nothing. He only stepped forward and put a hand on Damianos’s shoulder. He could not feel it, but Damianos could, and that was all that mattered.

It seemed to unlock something inside of Damianos. The moment the hand fell on his shoulder, he took a deep breath and moaned, “Laurent.”

His little brother’s name put Auguste on instant alert. “What?”

“He is my consort. We have an important ceremony tonight.” Damianos ran his hands fretfully through his hair.  “This is not fair to him.”

“I know that. Trust me, I’m just as interested in protecting my little brother as you are.”

Damianos looked up, narrowing his eyes in a way that he must have learned from Laurent. “Your little brother?”

Auguste only stared at him. There was no point in saying anything more; either Damianos would believe him, or he would not. The air felt like lead on his shoulders as he waited for some kind of response.

Slowly, the anguish cleared from Damianos’s face. There was an instant in which he looked desperately confused.

Then he dropped to one knee.

Auguste threw out his hands. “No! You don’t have to-”

But Damianos had already folded himself over, forearm on bended knee. It was a classic pose of genuflection. Unfit for a King. _Unheard of._

“Auguste of Vere,” Damianos was saying, though it was hard to hear him through the rush in Auguste’s ears. “What an honor. Laurent speaks of you so fondly.”

Auguste swallowed. “We have, in fact, met before,” he said.

It took a second or two for the words to sink in. He couldn’t see Damianos’s face, but he saw his shoulders jump, as though he’d been pricked by something sharp. Auguste knew exactly what had pricked him: the memory of a sword going through his shoulder, of Auguste’s final act before the Great Beyond.

“I am so sorry,” Damianos said.

“I know that,” Auguste replied. “You’ve said it every time you’ve come to one of my shrines, but it was never necessary. War is war. Death happens. And you were honorable.”

“If I were to apologize until the end of time, it wouldn't be enough. There were such horrible repercussions-”

“You make my little brother happy,” Auguste said, cutting him off because he couldn't bear to hear the rest. “What else could I ask for?”

The mention of Laurent seemed to calm Damianos. His shoulders relaxed. He looked up, wearing a poorly-suppressed smile that engaged the dimple in his left cheek. “He says I make him happy?”

Auguste sighed, unable to help a small smile of his own. “Yes. All the time, and in many different ways. In fact, it’s getting quite old.” _And I hope I get the chance to tease Laurent for how ridiculous the two of you are._ “Which is exactly why I'm so determined to get you back in your body.”

“Of course. I’m glad to get the chance to speak to you finally, but . . . what are you doing in my body?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Now, for Heaven’s sake, would you get off your knee? You are King Damianos of Akielos.”

“You can call me Damen,” Damianos said. But he did get up, rising from the bow with a grace that sacrificed no dignity.  It was probably impossible for this man to do _anything_ that sacrificed dignity. Even stark naked, he was regality personified.

“Do you remember praying for this?” Auguste asked.

Damen’s brow furrowed. “Praying?”

“Asking your God for this, in some way. Asking if you could trade places with me, asking if Laurent could have one more day with me, et cetera.”

“Since the moment I fell in love with Laurent, I’ve wished I had not killed you,” Damen said. “But I am not a praying man.”

Auguste nodded. “Fair.” He himself had not been a believer either, until dying. Damianos would figure that out someday. “Do you dabble in the occult?”

Damen’s laughter had a hard edge. “I have no time for that tripe.”

“Interesting.” Auguste began to pace back and forth. He was still a little unsteady on his new feet, and nearly tripped over them more than once. It was probably easier to just stand still, but he always thought better if he was moving.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Damen eventually asked.

Auguste did not look up from the flattened trail he was making in the flower bed.  “No.”

“Then you have to tell Laurent,” Damen said. “If there is anything at all that can be done, he will know of it.”

It was spoken with such certainty that Auguste reacted automatically - with a loud, whooping gale of laughter. He didn't expect the deep, rich sound that echoed back to his ears. That alone stopped his laughter almost as soon as it had begun. The absurdity of the idea might have otherwise kept him going for hours.

“My little brother is an incredible skeptic,” he said, once he had recovered. “What makes you think he would entertain this?”

Damen seemed unmoved by Auguste’s mirth. “He's bound to have read a book on the subject at some point in his life. And even if he doesn’t believe you, he’d do anything in his power to help me if he thought I was in trouble. Trust me.”

 _Trust me._ Auguste did trust him on that point, because he couldn’t count how many times Laurent had voiced a similar sentiment while crouched at one of his shrines. However, Auguste knew that Laurent’s willingness to speak to him at one of his shrines was very separate from any kind of paranormal inclination. Laurent spoke to the shrines simply because it made him feel better. It made him feel like Auguste was still there with him. Laurent had no expectation that Auguste was actually listening, and would certainly be mortified if he knew that he was.

“I can try to broach the subject,” Auguste admitted, “But it will be . . . awkward.” He thought of the way things had gone this morning, when his attempts to talk to Laurent had led to the almost-kiss.

“Yes, I can see why. But you have to try.” Damen paused, and pressed his lips together. Auguste saw him swallow and physically push the next words out. “You see, the ceremony tonight is-”

A third voice pierced the air. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

Auguste turned. It was the man who had fallen into step beside him earlier. He was standing underneath the arched trellis, holding onto it as though he could not stand without support. He was gaping.

“First you left your chambers in rags, and now you’re talking to yourself,” the man said, after a sweeping glance over the gardens. “Damen, are you sure you're well?”

Auguste looked back at the real Damen, who was again so pale that he looked almost gray. It took much longer than it should have for Auguste to remember that the _real_ Damen was in fact a vacated soul, and therefore this irritating man could not see him. _He_ was Damen, for now.

He cleared his throat. “Hello, um-”

“His name is Nikandros,” Damen whispered.

“Nikandros!” Auguste cried. “So nice to see you weren’t trampled by the crowd.”

Nikandros flashed a smile that left his face a little too quickly. “It was a close call, but I managed.”

Silence. Auguste felt his heart at the base of his throat as Nikandros stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable in the shifting shadows cast by the trellis. _Who the hell are you talking to?_ He was still awaiting an answer.

“I was . . .  practicing my speech for the ceremony tonight,” said Auguste. It seemed like a perfectly plausible idea, so he ran with it. “I think I’ve finally got it down.”

Damen hitched in a breath. “Auguste-”

Nikandros interrupted Damen with a loud, long crack of laughter. Auguste blinked. What he had said was not traditionally funny, but perhaps Akielons were easily amused. He turned to Damen for some kind of reassurance; he did not find it. Damen had a palm spread over his face.

“At least your sense of humor is still intact,” Nikandros said, coming forward and clapping him on the shoulder. “But you really need to get yourself together. You were expected in Council with the kyroi half an hour ago, but I managed to stall them. I told them you were feeling antsy about tonight.”

“I hope they understood,” said Auguste, for lack of anything better to say. He was almost _afraid_ to say anything else, with Damen looking that way. “Thank you for covering for me.”

“What are friends for?” Nikandros asked dryly. Then he frowned and leaned to the side, looking past Auguste. At the memorial statue. “Why do you keep looking back at that statue?”

“It . . . helps to practice if I feel like I have an audience,” said Auguste.

Damen groaned.

Nikandros laughed again, but it sounded as though it had been squeezed out of a tube. “Interesting choice of audience,” he remarked.

He took a few steps back and just stood there, staring, as though he expected Auguste to follow him. Auguste returned the stare, wanting desperately to look back at Damen. But it would do no good for this man to think he was crazy. It would only make things harder for Damen when - if - he got his body back.

“I’ll be along shortly,” said Auguste. _Leave. Now. Please._

“You really need to come now. I cannot stall them forever.”

“No, Auguste,” Damen said. “Don’t!”

Auguste’s stomach felt heavy. It would do no good for this man to think him crazy, and it would be even worse if the kyroi thought so, too. There would be no way to solve this if he ended up in the physician’s quarters, suspected of having some kind of mental defect. And such a thing would guarantee that Laurent would never believe him.

“Yes, of course,” Auguste said to Nikandros, stepping forward. “Lead the way.”

NIkandros flashed a tight smile and turned, displaying his broad back. He headed for the latticed iron doors that led back into the palace. Auguste used the opportunity to turn back to Damen, who had gone from gray to almost white. Standing as he was against the white marble statue, it was hard to see him.

“Do not waste time in the Council chamber,” Damen said. “Go to Laurent!”

“It will do us no favors if everyone thinks you’ve gone mad,” Auguste whispered, snatching a look over his shoulder. Nikandros continued walking toward the doors, apparently oblivious.

“I don’t care if they think I’m crazy,” Damen hissed. “This is more important than that.”

“How can you say that? If everyone thinks you’re mad, Laurent will never believe me!”

Damen’s next words cut Auguste so deeply that he completely lost his train of thought.

“The ceremony happening tonight is Laurent and I’s _public consummation,”_ he said. “So unless you want things to get even _more_ awkward, fixing this is your top priority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued! I hope that ending didn't seem too abrupt. I really could think of no better way to end Part 1.
> 
> Part 2 will be posted next week. It's my favorite part :)
> 
> By the way, I just started a tumblr account. I’m not really sure how to use it, and God only knows if I’ll ever post anything on it. So there’s that. It’s under the same name I use here, OutofAutumn. I am basically just using it to follow Captive Prince blogs because I'm obsessed. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys are great. I was not expecting the enthusiastic feedback I’ve gotten so far on this fic. I am so glad I made you cry/laugh (actually, I don’t like making people cry, but it seems like it was the good kind of crying). 
> 
> That being said, I hope it does not disappoint, because things get a little more “emotional” from here on out. It’s simply impossible for this scenario to play out in a plausible way without some emotional things. But don’t worry, I made it as funny as I could. 
> 
> Thanks so much! Enjoy Part 2!

 

******

Ditching Nikandros was easier than Auguste expected.

Or maybe he was so desperate that he was willing to take stupid risks. He was following Nikandros down a wide hallway, the walls decorated with a sequence of murals depicting Akielon and Veretian legends. The hemorrhage of courtiers had mostly cleared from the halls, giving him no option but to simply make a break for it.

He waited until Nikandros turned a corner. Then he pivoted, dashing back the way they’d came.

There were several precious seconds before the inevitable: “Damen! Where the hell are you going?”

Auguste darted into a deserted stairwell. The heavy oak doors choked off Nikandros’s words, but Auguste did not stop to appreciate it. He launched himself down the stairs, taking them two, three, sometimes four at a time. _Finally, something this body is good for,_ he thought grimly.

The stairwell emptied into another hallway. The dozen or so guards standing at attention on either side made it clear that this was the location of the royal residences, or at least in close proximity. He whirled to the guard closest to him. As the man was kneeling to make obeisance, Auguste grabbed his shoulders, feeling the joints of the man’s armor pinch his fingers.

“Where is the King of Vere?” He asked.

The man’s mouth opened and closed silently. Auguste was ready to shake him when he finally sputtered, “I cannot say for sure, but I thought I saw him heading toward the baths earlier.”

“The _baths_?”

The man lifted his arm and pointed down the hallway with a trembling finger. At the very end of it there was a set of glass doors. Beyond them, Auguste could barely make out a marble staircase bordered by a gilded banister, leading down. “Yes. He went that way.”

Auguste groaned. Not only was he going to have to convince the ever-dubious Laurent that his big brother was in his lover’s body. He was going to have to do it in the _baths_ : the one place that could take this desperate, inconvenient situation and make it even more awkward.

The guard swallowed. “If you’d like, I could go collect him for you.”

“No,” said Auguste. “Thank you.” The idea was certainly appealing, but this was something he had to do on his own. He made his way down the hall.

The baths were an architectural masterpiece, a cavern of graceful marble arches interweaved with twisting emerald vines. The word _pool_ could more accurately be used to describe the bath, because the water was clearly deep enough to swim through. Only the white benches built along the sides of the rectangular pool implied that it was meant for bathing. A stained glass ceiling harmonized with the chandelier light, blotching the water with amorphous blobs of brilliant color.  It lent the room an intimate atmosphere that was, under the circumstances, very unwelcome.

Laurent was chest-deep in the steaming water, reclining against the side of the bath. He had a towel rolled up on the marble behind him and his head was tilted back to rest on it, his eyes closed, his face pointed up at the ceiling. A pictorialization of peace.

Auguste hesitated in the arched doorway. It seemed blasphemous to wreck this atmosphere of serenity, which did not surround Laurent - or _any_ King - often. _He’s trying to relax. I should not disturb him._ It seemed as good an excuse as any.

But then he thought of Damen, sitting at the base of the statue, his face in his hands. He thought of everything that would go wrong if he did not find some way to fix this: of the repercussions that would affect not only he and Damen, but Laurent as well. If he could not get Damen back in his body, there would be no public consummation tonight, and no formally acknowledged union between the two Kings. As the former Crown Prince of Vere, he understood that this might look bad for the alliance. It would also look bad for Damen and Laurent’s relationship, which would doubtlessly become the subject of a rash of mean-spirited gossip.

Most importantly: Laurent would not understand. Laurent would feel betrayed by Damen. Laurent would be hurt. Of all the possible fallout, this was the worst.

Auguste walked forward as quietly as possible, his mind churning with possibilities on what he could say. Or maybe what he could _do_? If he picked Laurent up from behind and tossed him into the deep center of the bath, the way he had sometimes facetiously done when Laurent was a boy, it might help convince Laurent of who he really was. But no . . . it would be too easy to hurt him with this brawny new body.

_I could dunk him,_ he thought instead, thinking of the way boy-Laurent used to squawk at this treatment. Auguste smiled. _Yes, that’s it._ He continued forward.

Laurent cracked open an eye. “Oh, it’s only you. Based off the noise, I was expecting an army brigade.”

Auguste stopped. _Damn it._ He looked down at his huge, unfamiliar feet. “I don’t see how it’s possible to move quietly with these gigantic things.”

His heart jolted when he realized what he’d said - something that Damen, being used to the size of his own feet, would never say. He sucked in a breath, ready to explain himself.

But Laurent didn’t seem to catch on. A slow smile unfolded across his face. “Fishing for compliments? Sorry, you’ll find no opposition from me.” He yawned loudly - perhaps a backhanded reference to their spat of this morning - and patted the marble next to him. “Care to join me?”

Auguste hesitated. There was nothing overtly taboo about bathing with one’s brother; he and Laurent had bathed together all the time when Auguste was alive. But there was something _wrong_ about it when said brother thought you were his lover. The potential for disaster was too great.

“No, thank you,” he said, coming to the edge of the bath and sitting down. He plunged his bare feet into the water. It was torrid, steamy, perfectly hot.

“You'll want to be clean for the ceremony tonight,” Laurent said. “A hundred or so years ago, a Veretian King dared to consummate his union without having washed his arse, and he never lived it down. The history books still talk about it.”

Auguste laughed out loud. It had been a long time since he’d thought of King Thibault III. “Oh, yes. I remember that lesson.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “They teach Veretian history in Akielos?”

Now was the time to say, _No._ Now was the time to say, _I was not raised in Akielos, I was raised in Vere, because I'm your brother, Laurent. It's me, Auguste._ His throat pinched off the words.

“Nikandros told me you were feeling under the weather,” Laurent said. “A bath will help.”

_Nikandros._ Meddling pest. “He was wrong.”

“I don’t think so. You’re really not yourself.”

Auguste sucked in a breath so large that it made his lungs ache. Now or never. “That’s because I’m not-”

Laurent cut him off. “You’re still nervous about tonight, aren’t you?”

Something about the question made Auguste pause. It wasn’t the words that were strange: it was the tone. Gentle, reassuring, and a little precarious, as though this topic had been tread upon before. Perhaps with grim results.

“This does not have to be like one of those long, public pet performances we were subjected to in Arles,” Laurent continued, turning to look back out over the frothing surface of the bath. There was really nothing to look at, but his eyes stayed fixed. “It will be quick. I will roll over; you will fuck me. Nothing we haven’t done hundreds of times before, and certainly far less extensive. Once we both come, it will be-”

This time, it was Auguste’s turn to cut him off. It wasn’t just the crude language. Some instinct was rising inside of him. It was the same instinct that had told him to keep boy-Laurent far away from their uncle. The same instinct that had told him to crush Laurent into a suffocating hug before riding off to the front lines at Marlas.

“You’re nervous, too,” he said. 

Laurent did not answer, but his shoulders rose a little.

“If you and-" - _Damianos -_ “are so hesitant to go through with it, then why do it at all?”

Laurent let out a shaky breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “This is new.”

“No, really,” said Auguste. When Laurent did not look at him, he reached out and touched his shoulder, which was warm and slick from the steam. “Are you doing this just for protocol? You’re the King of Vere, now. Make your own.”

“Reverse centuries of tradition on a whim? My sweet, pragmatic Damianos. Why didn't I think of that before?”

There was a silence. Laurent adjusted himself against the side of the bath, causing water to slosh and slap the tiles. The skirt of Auguste’s chiton went from damp to drenched.

“You should never have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” Auguste said. “Especially if the only purpose is to satisfy other people. Everyone knows-”

_You and Damianos are in love,_ he started to say, then bit down on the words. They were too abrupt. To reveal himself now would change this moment, make it about him, make it into something else. He could not do that, no matter what the stakes. This was about talking Laurent through whatever tangle was currently occupying his maze of a mind.

This moment was about being a big brother.

“The fucking-in-public part of it isn’t what makes me uncomfortable,” said Laurent. “The whole ceremony just seems so . . . contrived.”

The words were spoken so quietly that Auguste had to strain to hear them. He looked at his little brother’s profile and saw that he had his jaw clenched very tightly. He also noticed, with some surprise, the spray of fine, nearly-invisible gold hair that lined it. When he’d kissed Laurent’s cheeks before riding out at Marlas, they had been smooth as polished wood.

He realized he was staring. “Contrived?” He asked, mostly to fill the silence.

“Yes,” said Laurent. “But nothing about us has ever been like that. Nothing about us has ever been forced. Nothing has ever been . . . ” He uttered a short, stale chuckle. “Conventional.”

He looked back at Auguste. His eyes were purposeful and bright, shimmering with the muted glare of the chandeliers off the water.

“We’ve worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get what we have,” Laurent said. “And this traditional, utterly unremarkable ceremony is to be the pinnacle? It’s not -” He broke off, momentarily averting his eyes. When he moved them back, they were hard, as though he’d finally come to a resolution he’d been desperately searching for. “It’s not _good_ enough.”

The back of Auguste’s neck tingled, and it was as if he could feel every hair on his body raising one by one. _Leave it to Laurent to take something as crude as public consummation, twist it in his head, and make it poetic._ This feeling: it was awe.

But no. _Awe_ was not, as Laurent had said, _good enough._

This was pride.

“I just wish Auguste was here,” Laurent said, looking back out over the surface of the bath.

Auguste’s thoughts boomeranged back into place. “What?”

“He was born to be the King of Vere. He spent his entire life learning about these trifling ceremonies. He heard it from the Council. From Father. I've read about these things in books, of course, but perhaps what I lack is subjective context. Auguste could help me understand.”

It was as though a door had been opened. Auguste’s palms began to sweat.

“He _is_ here,” said Auguste.

Laurent looked at him. For a second, his eyes were wide and empty, an expression of desperate hope. The expression he'd worn when Auguste had knelt in front of him at Marlas, and reassured him they would return to Vere together after the battle. _We’ll play chess,_ he had said, wiping the tears from Laurent’s cheeks. _We’ll play chess until you're sick to death of it._

Auguste said, quietly, “He’s sitting right beside you.”

Laurent blinked. It did not wipe away the innocent expression, and Auguste’s chest felt like it was about to burst. _He believes me._

Then Laurent pressed his lips together, compressing them into a thin line. His jaw tightened. “Spare me, Damen,” he said.

“I'm not-”

“I appreciate your efforts, but you more than anyone should know that I am not moved by frivolous spiritual sentiments. Auguste is dead.”

Auguste stared at him, and watched as the innocence left Laurent’s face little by little, like shutters closing over a sequence of windows. Auguste felt like a man who had been climbing a sheer rock face, and almost made it to the top before a downpour started. Now he was grappling for purchase.

“No, Laurent. That's not what I meant. I meant that-”

Before he could finish, cold hands landed on his calf and pulled.

The world blurred. A splash. The weight of water around him, a capsule of heat, a tugging sensation as his chiton, buoyed by the water, drifted out around him. He broke the surface of the water gasping, and shook his head back and forth, water droplets sparkling through the air like little jewels.

In the confusion, it took him a few seconds to understand what had just happened. _He pulled me in. He pulled me in, before I could -_

Laurent was still arranged elegantly against the side of the bath. The fine droplets of water on his hair and lashes were the only proof that he had been involved in this mischief at all.

“I just wanted to make sure your arse was clean,” Laurent said. Then he started to laugh. It was a crisp, carefree sound, a near-echo of the way he’d laughed as a child.

For a moment, desperation beat inside Auguste’s skull, telling him that he did not have time for this. He realized what Laurent was doing: sidestepping, deterring the situation away from a topic that made him feel vulnerable. But the laughter worked on Auguste, chiseling its way through the frustration, the urgency. Hearing Laurent laugh like that snagged a hook inside his brain.

He suddenly found himself dragged back to the past: Young Laurent hiding Auguste’s ceremonial regalia and giggling like a maniac as he frantically tried to find it. Concealing himself behind palace doors and jumping out as Auguste walked by, taking great delight in his feigned terror.

In that moment, everything else disappeared. In that moment, they were brothers again, giggling together over nothing.

“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” Auguste asked.

Laurent shrugged, laughing harder.

Auguste moved forward. “I’ll show you clever!”

Laurent splashed him. When Auguste recovered, blinking through beads of rose-scented water, Laurent was swimming away through the deep center of the bath. He was agile in the water, a gift provided by his long legs and lithe figure. A gift Auguste usually shared.

But if this body was suited for swimming at all, it was not for swimming quickly. It was an unfair chase.

He heard Laurent laughing ahead of him. Auguste was laughing too, helplessly, inhaling water as a consequence. When he finally swam close enough to where he might be able to grab Laurent’s foot, Laurent slid underwater.

The light beating on the vine-covered arches above created a series of complicated shadows on the water. Combined with the cast-off colors from the stained glass, it made it impossible to see anything underneath. August bobbed in place, spinning in tight circles, looking for a hint of pale limbs or golden head.

Suddenly, there was the surge of water. A weight slammed into his back. Two pale, slender arms linked around his neck, and two legs clamped around his waist. Laurent was on him piggy-back style, dripping.

“I win,” Laurent said, with a breathless laugh.

“Oh, really?” Auguste asked. He twisted to and fro. Laurent clutched him harder. Auguste bucked forward, trying to throw Laurent over his head. Laurent tightened his legs and held on, anchoring his hands in Auguste’s hair, laughing so hard that it was nearly soundless.

Auguste groped behind him, found Laurent’s ribs, and tickled. Laurent tried to act as though he was not terribly bothered by this. Auguste knew better, and persisted. Laurent started to squirm, but he still held on, until Auguste bucked forward again and sent him flipping over his head.

Laurent came up splashing.  Auguste kept tickling.

“Stop it!” Laurent tittered.

That, of course, meant ‘keep going’ in big brother language. Auguste chased him around the bath, splashing him, dunking him, tickling him whenever he got the chance. Laurent responded with splashes, mild insults, and more jump ambushes that ended much the same as the first.  The tussle ended when Auguste finally managed to chase Laurent back to the bench he’d originally been reclining on. Once there, they both sagged against the side of the bath, heaving in steamy air that felt as thick as soup.

“I win,” Auguste panted.

“You cheated,” Laurent countered.

“You have remarkably high standards. I seem to remember being yanked into the water, after I specifically said I didn’t want to bathe.”

The side of Laurent’s mouth quirked up. “You are loathsome, Damianos.” He sent a half-hearted but well-aimed splash into Auguste’s face.

_Damianos._

The past drifted away like the ghost it was.

Auguste wanted it back. He wanted it so badly that he looked out over the bath, where he would not risk a glimpse of his bulky legs or olive skin. He watched the colors shifting on the water, formless nebulae much like the vibrant clouds that smeared the skies in the Great Beyond. It was beautiful there. It was paradise. Yet now that he was here alongside his little brother again, it didn't seem to compare.

His thoughts were disrupted by a hand landing on his leg. Laurent’s hand, so pale against the brown skin of his thigh.

“I know of a way to take our minds off of the ceremony,” Laurent said quietly.

Auguste looked at him. “What?”

Laurent’s hand slid a little higher, teasing the hem of the chiton. “Need me to spell it out for you? I want to fuck.”

Auguste moved Laurent’s hand away. Laurent flashed him a fleeting, wounded look that made his heart ache.

“I didn’t come here to . . . fuck,” Auguste said, trying to sound somewhat apologetic. 

Laurent chuckled soundlessly, utter antithesis to his playful laughter of before. “Nikandros was right. You really must be under the weather.”

“No,” Auguste said, “I-”

“Don’t want to affect your performance tonight? Of course the legendary King Damianos cannot risk an insult to his virility.”

“No!” Auguste blurted. “I came here because . . .” His mind churned, finding and discarding things to say.

When he finally came to the idea, it felt unscrupulous. Using his little brother’s emotions against him _was_ unscrupulous, any way you looked at it. But Damen had said it: _He’d do anything in his power to help me if he thought I was in trouble._ Damen was right.

“Damianos is in trouble,” said Auguste.

A fissure moved through Laurent’s face. It was hard to say whether it was because of his statement, or the fact that he had referred to himself in what was, to Laurent’s eyes, the third person.

“Something has happened,” said Auguste. And then, because he could think of no better way to say it, “Sometime last night, while Damianos was sleeping, his soul was . . . switched. With mine. I don’t know how or why it happened, but I have somehow ended up in his place. Here, in his body. I know he means everything to you, and I don't know what to do, I just-"

He was rambling. He stopped, and it was hard to breath, but he doubted the humidity in the room had anything to do with it. He watched Laurent’s face as he collected himself. It was completely unreadable, save for the small furrow between his brows.

“It’s me, little brother,” Auguste said.

Laurent sat up a little straighter. “I beg your pardon?” 

“It’s me. Auguste.”

Silence. Laurent moved back from him a little. His eyes swept Auguste up and down, as though he were trying to look through his flesh and see the soul inside.

Slowly, his face changed. It started with his eyes, which narrowed and went cold, sharp, impenetrable. Then his cheeks turned a red too violent to have been caused by the steam.

“I’ve known you roughly two years,” Laurent said. “And somehow, I’m only just now seeing how cruel you can be.”

No. This was all wrong. “Laurent-”

“I just confided in you, and you proceed to mock me? I know what this is. You can't stand it that I need Auguste more than you.”

Laurent stood up, ropes of water trailing from his body. As Auguste sputtered, trying to come up with something to salvage this situation, Laurent bent down and grabbed the towel from behind him. He unrolled it with a sharp _snap._

“You like being the only one I have to turn to, don't you?” Laurent said this while drying his upper body in rough, quick motions. “You like being the only one in my confidences. It strokes your massive ego for people to know that you, King Damianos, are the only man who's ever been good enough to sway me. To woo me. To _fuck_ me. The thought of having me under you tonight in front of everyone must be quite a rush.”

Auguste felt that like a slap. He watched open-mouthed as Laurent stepped out of the bath and bent over, drying the rest of himself with the same perfunctory coolness. He had never heard Laurent talk in that tone before. His voice was calm yet jagged: a dagger wrapped in silk.

“Let me make something perfectly clear to you, so we no longer have to worry about any misconceptions,” Laurent said, rising to his full height and fixing Auguste in a cold stare. His eyes, normally such an innocent, cornflower blue, were scalding. “You will never replace my brother. You are no _comparison_ to my brother. No amount of mocking me will change that.”   

He turned and strode away, padding on bare feet toward the glass doors.

Auguste sat against the side of the bath, reeling. He recognized the words for what they were: weapons, meant to hurt Damianos. _Effective_ weapons. But he also recognized something else.

Laurent was aching for his big brother. Auguste had known that, of course, since the day that he died. But he hadn’t known the extent to which Laurent _still_ ached for him, after eight years, adulthood, and the love of his life. 

He climbed out of the bath, dripping, not bothering to dry himself. He reached Laurent just as he was pulling a robe from the rack next to the doors.

“Laurent, please hear me out,” he said.

Laurent shrugged the robe on, tied it, and reached for the filigreed door handle.

Auguste grabbed Laurent’s arm, felt the muscles taut beneath his palm. “Please, stop!”

Laurent whirled around and fixed him with such a spiteful glare that Auguste staggered backward. “Do not touch me.” His little brother’s words were acid, said through his teeth.

Auguste released his arm; he was afraid he’d lose his fingers if he didn’t. Laurent was through the doors before he could comprehend, slamming them behind him with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. Auguste heard the patter of his feet up the short marble staircase on the other side. The slam of another set of doors.

Auguste stood there, torn between punching a hole through the glass or bursting into tears.

He settled on something in between. “Damn it!” It echoed off the domed ceiling and returned to his ears, sounding as hollow as he felt. He had come here with every good intention, with the single goal of keeping Laurent from getting hurt. He thought of Laurent’s eyes as he’d spoke those awful, hateful words.

He had failed.

His chest was aching. He felt treacherous tears pricking his eyes, but he held them back. This was not the time to lose it. He had to make this right.

He crashed through the doors and sprinted up the staircase, sloughing water all over the marble. He burst back into the hallway. There was Laurent up ahead, walking so fast it was nearly a jog, the ties of his robe flapping behind him. Auguste followed. 

“Exalted,” a deep male voice said.

Auguste stopped. There was a man standing on the other side of the hall, his hand on the door knob behind him as though he’d been recently roused from his rooms. Perhaps he had been, by the slam of the bath doors.

Auguste cursed under his breath when he saw which man it was.

“Nyandros . . .” Wait, that wasn’t right. “I mean - _Nikandros -_ this really isn’t a good time.”

A subtle frown flowed over Nikandros’s features. He gestured down the hallway, where Laurent’s retreating form was growing smaller and smaller.   “The King of Vere seems a bit . . . distraught.”

“He is.” Auguste took a step in Laurent’s direction.

“What happened?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Now he was just getting irritated.

“I think it is. Because as much as it pains me sometimes, I know you would never hurt the King of Vere. Just as I know you would never be flagrantly irresponsible, as you were this morning. Just as I know you would never forget my name.”

_Hurt the King of Vere._ That caused a pang. Then, a pause, as Auguste heard everything else. It was the type of statement that would have pricked his brow with sweat an hour ago. Now, it scarcely raised his pulse.

“I don’t know what’s going on, ” Nikandros said, “But this is not you, Damen. Something isn’t right.”

They were staring at each other from across the hallway. The patter of Laurent’s feet was long gone, swallowed by the labyrinthine hallways. There was not even an echo to suggest which direction he had gone in.

Auguste could have said, _it’s the griva._ He could have said, _sorry, I’ve just been nervous about the ceremony tonight._ He could have said a lot of things.

Instead, he spread his hands. “You’re right,” Too exasperated to argue, the words rode out on a sigh. “I’m not Damen.”

It provoked an instant of silence. He thought he saw Nikandros’s hand twitch toward the butt of his sword, but Auguste’s brain was too battered to follow any instinct to defend himself. Not that he had anything to defend himself with, besides a waterlogged chiton.

“What do you mean?” Nikandros asked, swallowing.  _  
_

“I’m a ghost,” Auguste said. “A very tired, very desperate, very impotent ghost.”

Then he turned and ran.

He heard Nikandros shout behind him, presumably to the guards, “Stop him!” But his words were apparently no match for the clout of a King. The guards, wide-eyed, only plastered themselves against the wall to stay out of Auguste’s way. A few unfortunate servants were forced into similar postures, scattering serving trays and other assorted debris.

Let them talk. Let them _all_ talk. All that mattered was getting to Laurent, salvaging this.

At least these legs were good for running.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might find it odd that the consummation ceremony is happening, yet there was never any mention of a wedding/being married. There are two reasons for this: 1.) I figured if Laurent thinks the consummation ceremony is “contrived”, he’d feel the same about a wedding and 2.) I just got married, and the last thing I want to do is think about weddings anymore! So that word will be nowhere in this fic.
> 
> Part 3 (the end) is next week! I’ve been thinking about adding an epilogue, but if I do, I’ll probably just add it to the end of part 3. So it might be stupidly long.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pain I caused you in Part 2 :( I feel like pushing the “Auguste button” is the only thing that would still provoke such an explosive reaction in Laurent. And I think you’ll have more context for his explosion in this next section. 
> 
> This part is more lighthearted. There’s a little more pain, but also, happiness! And it’s pretty long. I didn’t do as great a job at breaking this up as I thought. 
> 
> Enjoy!

******

 

This time, Auguste didn’t need to ask where Laurent was. He didn’t even need to wonder. The past eight years had taught him where Laurent went every time he was angry, anxious, or upset.

When he reached the latticed iron doors that led to the terrace garden, he hesitated, wondering if he should give Laurent more time to calm down. One look out the nearest window vanquished that possibility. The sun was already past the middle of the sky, shifted slightly to the west.

_Heaven help me,_ he thought with a gusty sigh.

Auguste opened the door as quietly as possible. He stopped at the edge of the arched trellis, where the shadows of the overhanging vines concealed him from view.

Laurent was sitting in the flowerbed beneath Auguste’s memorial statue.  He had his knees folded to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, the childlike posture he occasionally adopted when troubled.

Damianos was crouched beside him. His arms were around Laurent’s shoulders and his cheek was pressed against Laurent’s damp hair. Laurent could not see nor feel him, of course, but still he subtly leaned his head toward Damen, as though instinctively knowing there was a shoulder there to catch it.

Laurent was speaking. Not to Damianos, but to _him._ His statue.

“ . . .wanted to go through with it, despite my reservations,” he was saying. “It made him nervous, but he felt like it was necessary. He said he didn't want the Council to think he wasn't serious about being my consort.” He frowned. “But today, he was different.”

He was talking about Damen and the consummation ceremony. Auguste leaned a little closer; Laurent was talking in a low murmur, as though his conversation partner were right beside him.

Laurent passed a hand over his face. When he moved it away, his cheeks were red. “I should probably apologize to him.”

A silence, interrupted only by the trill of the yellow canaries caged at either end of the garden.

Laurent gave a sputtering, rueful laugh. “He was probably trying to help, in his own schmaltzy way. He doesn’t understand why I’m so conflicted. I don’t think _I_ even understood, until now.”

He looked up at the statue.

“The ceremony is trivial. A trifle, really. I’d have cancelled it weeks ago were it not for you.” Laurent said it while gazing into the blank marble eyes. He did it with a reverence that most people reserved for religious idols or breathtaking scenery. “But I know you would have done it, despite your reservations, because it’s part of our culture. I don’t want to do anything you would not approve of. I don’t want to disappoint you. I want to be the type of King you would have been.”

For a moment, Auguste just stood there, wanting nothing more than to fold Laurent in his arms and tell him everything would be all right. Then the truth plowed into him.

He had asked Damen if he was responsible for this, and when Damen had said _no,_ it had never occurred to him to think about Laurent. Not his ever-skeptical, ever-dubious, ever-logical little brother.

But maybe it had been Laurent all along. Maybe Laurent had wanted this so badly that, for whatever reason, the powers above had granted it.

In possibly the most ironic manner possible.

Laurent pressed his face into his knees. Auguste waited. The more Laurent talked, the more he would know, and the better off he’d be. But Laurent was apparently done. Minutes passed, and Laurent did not raise his head.

Auguste walked forward, the grind of the pebbles loud beneath his feet. Laurent’s shoulders jumped, but he did not look up.

“Eavesdropping, are you?” Laurent asked.

Auguste sighed. “Laurent . . .”

Damen looked up at Auguste for a second before pressing his cheek back into Laurent’s hair. “I have not seen him like this in a long time,” he said. It sounded mostly sympathetic, but there was a slight edge to it.

Auguste didn’t blame him. Not only was Damianos possibly going to remain a vacated soul for the rest of his life; Now Laurent thought he was an unfeeling, insensitive oaf, and was angry at him for absolutely no reason. Auguste was lucky that Damen didn’t try to tackle him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Auguste. It was a dovetailed statement, meant for them both.

“Oh, really,” said Laurent. It was bitter. Biting. “Then by all means, explain yourself.”

“I . . . I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve already told you the truth. Now I just need you to believe me.”

Laurent looked up at him with narrowed eyes. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment it looked like he might say something else. Something worse than the caustic diatribe he’d delivered before.

In the end, he must have thought better of it. He dropped his face back to his knees. “Just go away.”

Auguste knew that posture. He knew it like he knew the furrow that sometimes formed between Laurent’s golden brows. He knew it was impassable, unless Laurent had time alone to think. Time that they, unfortunately, did not have.

Auguste looked at Damen, hoping for some sort of guidance. Damen seemed concerned with nothing more than cuddling his oblivious lover. Despite the circumstances, it was impossible to be annoyed with him. It must have been very hard to see Laurent like this, and be powerless to do anything about it.

But what could be done? There was no way to prove himself. No way to argue with Laurent’s unshakeable logic.

Unless . . .

“Remember the time we got lost in the hedge maze at Arles, and Father sent an army regiment out looking for us? ” Auguste asked.

“Yes,” said Laurent. “I told you that story long ago, Damen.”

Auguste bit his lip. _Damn it._ “All right. What about how we used to race at Chastillon? How indignant you were when you found out I was letting you win?”

“Yes. Yet another story I told you long ago,” Laurent’s voice sounded as if he were reciting prose from a dull book. “If there’s a point to this, please get to it. If this continues much longer, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand you long enough to consummate our union.”

Auguste winced. Damen raised his head long enough to shoot Auguste a wide-eyed, worried glare that said, _Abort! Try something else!_ But there _was_ nothing else to try. Unless he could somehow hit on a memory Laurent hadn’t shared.

But what would he not have told Damen? Laurent had changed so much in the last eight years. A great deal of that change had happened in the past two years, after he’d met Damen.

There was _one_ thing. One thing he’d made Auguste promise to never share.

“Ok, then,” said Auguste. He cleared his throat. “What about the time when you were six, and we went on a royal tour of Vask? You were sitting on the Empress’s lap, and one of her leopards yowled. It frightened you so badly that you pissed on her.”

Laurent’s face, neck, and chest turned as red as a poppy plant. Damen laughed out loud, slapping his knee. Auguste smiled. Not only was Damen’s laughter infectious, it was also proof that he had not heard this story.

Laurent’s voice was a little shaky as he said, “You could have learned that from other sources.”

“Father was so embarrassed that he gifted Vask with an entire wagon full of gold. Did he not also swear his retinue to secrecy, on penalty of beheading?”

“I,” Laurent averted his eyes, frowning a little. “I’m not sure why you’re so determined to-”

His eyes widened, fixing on a point over Auguste’s shoulder. Auguste turned.

It was Nikandros.

HIs face was flushed and sweaty, as though he’d hurried here. His eyes were fixed entirely on Auguste, without so much as a wayward glance at Laurent, which was highly disrespectful to a King in any culture. The nature of his gaze said that this time, he would not be disposed of easily.

Auguste should have been annoyed, because this was, after all, the third time this man had interfered with his day. Instead dread pooled in his stomach, until he felt he might puke.

“Nikandros,” Laurent said, his voice clipped. “I’m not sure who invited you here, but I would like my privacy.” After a few seconds, he added, “Take Damianos with you when you leave.”

“That isn’t Damianos,” Nikandros said.

Laurent laughed a little too shrilly. “You, too?”

“I have reason to believe he’s an imposter.” Nikandros narrowed his eyes at Auguste. “He needs to explain himself.”

Laurent stood up, clutching the sides of his robe to hold it closed. His bare legs were smeared with dirt and grass stains. “Both of you. _Out.”_

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Majesty,” Nikandros said, “Out of concern for your safety.”

“Out of concern for _your_ safety, I’m telling you to leave, before I-”

“Order him to stand down!” Damen cried to Auguste. “He will not ignore a direct order. He is too loyal.”

_Loyal my ass,_ Auguste thought, studying the way Nikandros’s hand hovered over the butt of his sword. It was as it had been earlier, except this time, there were no guards to deter an attack.

“Nikandros,” Auguste said, holding up a hand, “Stand-"

The sword came out of its sheath in a slither of steel.

Laurent blundered forward, his face blanched. “Nikandros, don’t!”

Auguste instinctively extended his arm in front of Laurent, forcing him back. He could feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat. He was already dead - he could not be killed again. The same could not be said for Damianos. If that sword went through Damianos’s body, there would be nowhere for his soul to return to.

“Tell me who you are,” Nikandros said.

“I-" Auguste hesitated, waiting for more instruction from Damen. Damen said nothing - possibly as stunned as Laurent.

The tip of Nikandros’s sword was quivering a bit.  “What did you do to Damen?”

“Nothing,” said Auguste. “Or, at least, not on purpose. It just _happened._ If you would put the sword down-”

_“Has everyone here gone out of their minds?”_ Laurent cried.

Nikandros advanced. Auguste did not move, aware of Laurent behind him. He could hear Damen too, shouting things - none of which broke through the fog that clouded his brain when he thought of that sword coming any closer to Laurent.

All emotions boiled away and left only anger. How _dare_ this reckless idiot endanger his little brother.

The point of the sword pricked against his chest, an unpleasant pressure.

“Talk,” Nikandros said.

“I’ll explain,” Auguste said, reaching up to clasp the blade. He barely felt his sliced fingers, the blood that welled and began to run down his wrist. “But if you don’t get this sword away from my little brother, I will kill you."

Nikandros raised an eyebrow. “Your little brother?”

Auguste saw the instant it connected - saw Nikandros’s eyes flicker between he and the statue. Saw the point of the sword falter a little, until it fell away from his chest.  Auguste released the blade; his fingers instantly began to throb. He clutched his wrist as a rudimentary tourniquet and, for the first time in eight years, felt agony.

“Auguste of Vere?” Nikandros asked.

The pain - and the anger - made his words a little freer than they otherwise would have been. “Yes, you lout! If you’d given me a chance to speak, I would have said so!”

He heard a choked sound behind him. He turned and saw Laurent staring at him, his eyes huge and wide. His hands were bunched in the ends of his robe, as though he were trying to ground himself to something.

“You’re lying,” Laurent said. For the first time that day, he sounded unsure. “It can’t be true, it’s not-”

The doors opened with a crash. A trio of guards stumbled in.

“Exalted!” One of them yelled, “We heard the commotion and came as fast as we-”

Auguste saw what was about to happen before anyone else. He realized it almost instantly, because he saw all three sets of eyes swing to Nikandros’s sword. Nikandros had lowered the blade, but it was still more or less aimed at Auguste.

Auguste, who was, to outside eyes, their King.

He heard the _zing_ of swords being pulled from sheaths. There was no time to think. No time to reconsider. As the guards launched at Nikandros, swords drawn, Auguste rammed into him with one massive shoulder. Nikandros went sprawling to the side, sword skittering across the pebbles. Auguste staggered and fell to one knee.

That should have been the end of it. Should have been, except the guards did not react quickly enough. They continued forward, and now there was only one other person in their path.

Laurent.

Auguste grabbed Nikandros’s sword. He was not expecting the brute strength of Damianos’s arm, which hefted the two-handed Akielon blade as though it were nothing. He stood up in the path of three swords. 

These legs were bigger, bulkier than he was used to. The sword heavier, his hand slick with blood. If he’d had time to think, he would not have chosen a proprietary sword technique he’d conceived as an adolescent: a slashing pirouette, known for disarming several men at once.

But he did not have time. It could not fail.

He spun. Felt the jarring vibration of his blade connecting with three swords: _Clang, clang, clang_. Twisted his wrist just so, until he felt his blade catch underneath the hilts.

He wrenched. These were not thin, light Veretian swords. He gritted his teeth and wrenched harder.

His shoulder was on fire. But when he felt the pressure release and opened his eyes, three swords were spinning through the air, tumbling end-over-end, sunlight shining off steel. Auguste stepped back, prepared to take one in the chest if it came near his little brother. But all three struck the ground so quietly that it made a mockery of the panic they’d caused.

Everything was still. The now-unarmed guards stood wordless, stunned. He could hear himself breathing in ragged pants.

Nikandros was sprawled on the ground, pebbles sticking to his bloody, scraped shoulder. Laurent was on his rear, apparently knocked there at some point during the fray. Damianos was standing behind him, staring at Auguste. _Gaping_ at Auguste.

Auguste threw the sword aside and dropped to his knees beside Laurent. “Are you alright?”

Laurent was looking at him with a new expression. His face was white, far whiter than usual. His eyes were huge and glistening. His lips were parted, as though he meant to say something. Just as the first syllable left his lips--

A cacophony of clanging breastplates and creaking leather skirts. The guards were prostrating themselves. 

“Exalted!” They cried.

Auguste found it very hard not to grab Nikandros’s sword and behead them all. Such recklessness did not belong in a palace, much less on the King’s Guard, much less _anywhere near_ his little brother. He’d have a word with Damianos later.

He said only, “Get out of here.”

“We meant to cut down-" one of them gestured at Nikandros. “Shouldn't we arrest-"

_I'm tempted to say ‘yes’, for all the trouble he's caused me._ “No. Leave us.” For good measure, he added, “Before I lose my temper and have you all flogged.” 

They left, without bothering to collect their swords.

Nikandros was staring at him warily, a palm pressed to his bleeding shoulder. Damen was looking from Auguste to the three abandoned swords, and back again.

Auguste ignored them both and turned back to Laurent. He was still pale, but looked otherwise unharmed.

“Are you alright?” Auguste repeated.

Laurent gave a single, subtle nod. He looked as though he might faint, vomit, or both.

Auguste braced an arm behind his shoulders. “Are you sure?”

Laurent did not flinch away: a promising sign. His eyes searched Auguste’s face.

“I-" he swallowed. “That technique. I've only seen it successfully performed by one person. My-" He broke off, as though the word were too much to say.

“Your big brother?” Auguste supplied.

Laurent nodded. With that nod, it was as though a string inside of him snapped. A spectrum of emotions shuffled across his face in an instant: there was confusion, and disbelief, and anguish, and . . .

Joy.

And then Auguste could not see his face at all, because it was buried in his chest. His breath escaped him in a wheeze, because his little brother’s arms were around him, clamping with a strength he had never known Laurent possessed.

For years he had thought about what he would say if faced with this moment. What he would do. The answer was simple.

He wrapped his arms around his little brother and held on tight.  


******

He couldn’t say how long they stayed that way: Laurent’s face in his chest, Auguste’s uninjured hand smoothing through the soft golden hair. He knew Laurent was crying, but only because he could feel the wet heat of tears soaking through the chiton. There were no sobs, no shaking shoulders, no outward signs of emotion.

After some time - Auguste could not be sure how long - Nikandros rose from his sprawl on the ground.

“I’ll step out and give you a moment,” he said. “But we still need to talk about -”

_Damianos._ August only nodded, his chin bumping the top of Laurent’s head. He thought about explaining that Damen was standing not ten feet away, his back braced against the statue, his head down. But this moment felt fragile. He would not say anything to ruin it.

The doors clanged shut. The canaries continued to sing. Damianos kept his head down, either an attempt to give Auguste and Laurent privacy or to hide his emotion. Auguste watched the sun through the domed-glass ceiling as it crept to the west. Slowly. Not slowly enough. 

“Laurent,” he finally said.

Laurent turned his head to the side, showing Auguste one splotchy cheek. His eyes were squeezed shut, his lashes clumped with tears.

Auguste meant to say: _We’re running out of time._ His mouth had a mind of its own. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” said Laurent. It really was amazing how he could sound so calm, when he was clearly shaken to the core.

Auguste opened his mouth, but there were no words to fill it. It wasn’t that there was _nothing_ to say; it was that there was _too much_ to say. He wanted to tell Laurent that he was sorry for leaving him behind. He wanted to tell Laurent he was sorry that their uncle was not the kindly, supportive figure he had pretended to be. He wanted to tell Laurent he was sorry for all the bad years, that he was happy it was over, that he was so proud that he had taken that terrible time and made something positive out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent said.

Auguste craned his neck, so he could better see Laurent’s face. “Whatever for?”

“For not . . . believing you.”

“Well, it’s not as though this is the type of thing anyone expects to happen.”

Laurent pressed his face back into Auguste’s chiton. He dragged it back and forth, as though trying to dry his tears. Then slowly, deliberately, he pulled back. His face was red, wet, and flecked with a couple of dislodged eyelashes.

“How _did_ it happen?” He asked.

Auguste shrugged. “I have been pondering that same question since this morning, when I woke up beside you.”

Laurent looked into Auguste’s lap, his eyes going spacey.  “It does not make sense. This must be a dream.”

“Not everything can be approached with logic, little brother.”

“I tried to kiss you.” The words were said quietly, dazedly, without inflection. “I tried to-” He looked down at the hem of Auguste’s chiton.

Auguste didn’t think he was capable of laughter, because ever since Nikandros had drawn his sword, it felt as though every second was a barrage of gut-punches. But it poured out of him like a staccato roll of thunder.

The laughter seemed to shake Laurent out of his stupor. His eyes swung back up to meet Auguste’s.

“If you’re here . . . where’s Damen?” he asked.

“Technically, he’s right there,” Auguste pointed at the base of the statue. When Laurent automatically started to turn his head, he put a hand to his cheek to stop him. “You cannot see him. The living cannot see the dead.”

Laurent’s eyes bulged. “The _dead?”_

Auguste winced. Before he could say anything to correct himself, he saw Laurent’s face change, go completely devoid of color.

“Forgive me. I should not have said that.” Auguste took Laurent by the shoulders and pulled him back into his chest, smoothing a hand over his hair.  “It was not the proper word.”

Laurent’s voice was a little frantic as he asked, “Where is he? What happened to him?”

“Well, I’m in his body, so he was pushed out of it,” Auguste said, looking up at Damen. Damen appeared not to have heard the blunder; his head was still down, his face concealed. “I can see him and speak to him, but you- since you are living - cannot. Up there, we would call him a ‘vacated soul’.”

“‘Up there?’”

“The Great Beyond. Or, as people down here are starting to call it, Heaven.”

He expected a scoff, a laugh, some measure of disbelief. Laurent only tensed. Perhaps the fact that Auguste had been summoned here, apparently on Laurent’s whim, had tempered his dogged skepticism. More likely, he was still in shock.

“Is he all right?” Laurent asked.

_As ‘all right’ as he can be, under the circumstances._ If there was one lesson Auguste had learned today, it was that sometimes honesty was not the best route. “Of course he is.”

“Of all the bodies in the palace,” Laurent said, “Why did you choose his? Can you pick another one?”

Auguste started to answer the question prosaically: to say it was not a matter of choice, it had just _happened._ But then he realized what Laurent was really asking. Laurent had spent the last eight years yearning for Auguste, but now Auguste was not the only person Laurent yearned for.

Laurent was asking: _Why can’t I have both of you at once?_

Auguste’s throat felt tight. He tilted Laurent’s chin with his fingertips, needing to see his eyes, because there could be no misunderstanding this.

“I know this seems like a very cruel trade for you,” Auguste said. “But really, it’s no trade at all. I’m dead, Laurent.”

Laurent flinched. His eyes shimmered in the diluted light, harsh reminders of the sun that continued to drop ever lower to the west.

“I am dead, and Damianos is alive. And that’s the way it should be. This has to be fixed.” 

“How will you,” Laurent broke off and swallowed, “Fix it?”

“Damen and I were hoping you could tell us that.”

“Why would I know anything about this?”

“Well, you like to read, so we figured--”

“This is hardly my subject of choice,” Laurent said. “Since the moment you died, I’ve had very little reason to believe that spirituality was anything other than a child’s fable.”

He moved his chin out of Auguste’s hand and turned his face away. His lashes concealed his eyes, but it was still obvious what he was looking at: the statue.

Auguste tried to ignore the cramping sensation in his heart. “I’m so sorry, Laurent.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’ve no reason to apologize for your own death.” Laurent said it without looking at him.

“I told you I’d be back. That we’d play chess. And I failed you.”

He saw Laurent react to the memory, his chest expanding as he inhaled sharply. He took several deep breaths. The belled sleeves of his robe quivered as he trembled.

“That’s hardly your fault,” Laurent finally said. “I’ve . . . come to terms with it.”

“I want you to know that I kept the most important promise.”

Laurent looked back up at him, blinking.

“I told you that I’d always be there for you. That I’d look out for you,” Auguste said. “And I have.”

Laurent blinked again. The corners of his mouth twitched, and then he was smiling. It was small and feeble, yet still the most brilliant smile Auguste had seen from him today. He was smiling at _him_ now, not Damianos, and that mattered somehow.

“Anytime you've come to one of my shrines, I've heard everything you said,” Auguste continued.

Laurent flushed a little. “Really?”

“Yes. I heard about your Prince’s Guard. I heard of every effort you made to mitigate our Uncle’s influence over those he abused. I heard about your heroic efforts to claim your kingdom back. You said you wanted to be the type of King I would have been, but I can tell you with absolute surety that you are not.”

Laurent’s tiny smile faltered.

“The people of Vere are lucky that things worked out the way they did,” Auguste said, “Because you are the best King they could have hoped for.”

The smile restored itself, and amplified, until Auguste was looking at the carefree, unrestrained Laurent that he had known when he was alive. He had not seen this version of Laurent since the ascension. He had smiled like this when they placed the crown on his head, as the streamers swirled from the sky, as he turned and met Damianos’s lips while the crowd roared below.

An odd swooping sensation coursed through Auguste’s head. It trailed through his entire body, and left him feeling a little lightheaded.

Laurent’s voice snapped him out of it. “If only I had the optimism that seems to come so easily to you and Damianos,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Speaking of Damianos . . .” Auguste said. “He is a great man. I approve of your union wholeheartedly. But I must say, the two of you are revoltingly enthusiastic about each other. Next time you come to one of my shrines, kindly remember that your big brother is watching.”

Laurent’s flush deepened until his face was a red that could rival King Damianos’s banners. “You were watching _that,_ too?” he asked.

Auguste laughed and ruffled his little brother’s hair. He looked up at Damianos and saw that, although his face remained angled at the ground, his shoulders were shaking. His body looked a little more transparent than it had before, but it was probably only a trick of the light.

The conversation was easier from that point on. They talked for what could have been hours. Laurent wanted to know everything about life in the Great Beyond. Auguste wanted to know everything about life as the King of Vere. They barely spoke of the six dark years between Auguste’s death and Laurent’s courtship with Damianos. There was little reason to. It was a totally different reality.

Throughout it all, Auguste could not shake his lightheadedness, the surreal exhilaration of knowing that this was actually happening. That after so many years of watching his little brother grow, of yearning to reach through the pink filter and respond to his words and touch, he finally could. He found himself asking Laurent for clarification on things he’d said in the past, since he now had the ability to respond. He found himself constantly pulling Laurent into his chest, hugging him and tousling his hair, though the intervening eight years meant his little brother was far too old for this treatment.

It was easy to forget that the sun was sliding out of the sky.

When Auguste thought to look at it again, it had dropped so significantly that his heart buffeted his ribcage. Its light still cloaked them, but now the statues in the garden were growing small shadows.

“We’re running out of time,” Auguste breathed, and looked over at Damen.

What he had seen earlier was definitely not an illusion. Damen’s body was almost entirely transparent now. Damen himself could not see it, which was probably for the best, because he was already slack-jawed and waxen-faced, gazing at the falling sun.

“The ceremony is set to begin at sunset,” Damen said. “What are we going to do?”

Auguste started to answer him; to say _I don’t know if there_ is _anything we can do._ He was still not entirely sure what had caused this. Maybe it was because Laurent had wanted Auguste’s approval so badly. Maybe it had nothing to do with Laurent at all.

Then that swooping sensation swept through Auguste’s head again, rushing through his body and terminating in his stomach. The lightheadedness increased. It felt as though he were tethered to this body by the thinnest of strings. Was this what it felt like to faint? He couldn’t remember.

HIs heart stuttered. _Wait a minute._

He knew what this was.

This was what he had felt at Marlas. This was what he had felt while lying in the mud, bleeding from his chest, staring up into a ring of grieving faces that blurred more and more by the second.

This was what it had felt like when his soul left his body.

And if Damen was going transparent, could it mean . . . ?

But it didn’t make any sense. Why was this happening now? What had provoked it?

He thought back a few minutes, to the instant he’d first felt the swooping in his head. _I want to be the type of King you would have been,_ Laurent had said. And Auguste’s response:   _you are the best King they could have hoped for._ Laurent’s smile had been stunning. Carefree. As though every mote of tension in his body were released with that one statement. As though Auguste’s approval was everything he’d needed to hear.

Maybe it _was_ everything he’d needed to hear.

It was a bittersweet realization. He felt relieved for Damen, who could have no idea that this unusual inconvenience was likely nearing its denouement. But then he looked at Laurent, and his heart sank.

His little brother was not so little anymore. His little brother was in love with a kind, gentle King who would always have his best interests at heart. Despite this, his little brother clearly still needed him, and likely always would.

Auguste felt Laurent’s hand on his knee, pulling him out of the painful reverie.

“What’s wrong?” Laurent asked, searching Auguste’s face. He glanced over at the statue. “Is Damen -”

“Everything is fine,” said Auguste. He knew what he should have said: _I don’t think we have much time left together. We should say our farewells._

But something seemed more important than that. Something was unfinished. He thought back to the baths. It felt like that had been weeks ago, though it could only have been an hour or two at most. Laurent had been upset. Laurent had been doubting himself.

If he could remove even a fraction of that doubt, it would be more valuable to Laurent than a simple goodbye.

“Earlier, in the baths. You were conflicted about the consummation ceremony, and you wished for my opinion,” Auguste said.

Laurent cocked his head, clearly stunned by the sudden detour of the conversation. “Yes.”

“I meant what I said in the baths,” Auguste said. “If you don't want to do it, then don't.”

Laurent blinked. “The consummation ceremony?” He spoke slowly, as though trying to make sure Auguste understood. “It's Veretian custom, going back-"

“Centuries. Trust me, I know. It was thoroughly hammered into my head during my time as Crown Prince.”

“But hundreds of people have come to Delpha for this very purpose,” Laurent continued. “Noblemen and dignitaries and-”

“They will grumble about it, and complain, and perhaps some of them will call you very nasty things behind your back. You will have to deal with gossip, and possibly ridicule.” Auguste took up the hand Laurent had placed on his knee, and pressed it between both of his own. “Welcome to Kingship, little brother.”

Laurent looked at him blankly for another few seconds. The smile came slowly this time, but it seemed easier. He finagled his hand out of Auguste’s. It was streaked with blood. Auguste’s pulse kicked up, until he remembered that the blood originated from his own hand. _Damen’s_ hand. In all the craziness, he’d forgotten about his sliced fingers.

He looked up at the statue to offer Damen an apologetic glance. But Damen was gone.

“I suppose it will hardly be the worst thing Damen and I have gone through,” Laurent said thoughtfully, wiping his gore-streaked hand in the grass.

“Hardly,” said Auguste, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And you can be assured that there are even more trying things yet to come.”

“I suppose. And if Damen is not here, he cannot protest if I cancel the ceremony, now can he?” Laurent rose to his feet and extended a hand, offering it to Auguste.

Auguste looked at the hand. It would be simple: to brush away Laurent’s hand, to let him walk back into the palace. To let himself quietly slip away, before Laurent knew what was happening, before Laurent had a chance to mourn what he was losing. What he was losing _again._

Auguste was a little too selfish for that. He took Laurent’s hand, stood up, and crushed him into an embrace, the suffocating type he’d delivered before riding out at Marlas.

“Remember that I’ll always be here for you,” he said, into the soft flaxen hair at the crown of Laurent’s head. “I’ll always support you, in everything you do. You make me so proud.”

Laurent stiffened. Perhaps he was confused. Perhaps he recognized the hug for what it was. Or perhaps he was remembering that day eight years ago, when his big brother had knelt before him and promised him endless games of chess.

Nevertheless, his arms tightened. He pressed his face into Auguste’s chest, and they embraced, two brothers reunited in a terrace garden beneath the blank marble stare of a statue, while caged canaries continued to sing.  


******  


It ended just as it began.

There was no gradual drifting out of Damianos’s body. There was no seamless transition back to the Great Beyond. It happened in the space of a blink.

Nobody in the Great Beyond seemed to notice Auguste had even been gone. His attempts to explain it to his parents were met with disbelief not unlike that of Laurent’s. Orlant only clapped him on the shoulder and reminded him that the wine up here was very strong, and perhaps he should limit himself next time he decided to partake.

The next time Auguste was summoned to the memorial statue, he halfway expected Laurent to behave in a similar manner. He saw him through the familiar light-pink filter, strolling into the gardens with the same regal grace he always affected: chin up, hair immaculate, shoulders back.

Damen came in behind him. His right hand - the hand Auguste had used to clasp the blade of a sword, not so very long ago - was covered in a bulky bandage from which only the very tips of his fingers emerged.

Laurent knelt in front of the statue, as he always had. He bowed his head, as he always had. He did not immediately rise, as he usually did. Instead he spent a few moments just staring at the orange flowers at the statue's base. They were still trampled and flattened, perhaps the only tangible evidence of the impossible incident that had transpired there. He was looking at the especially concave spot where he and Auguste had sat together as they talked. Hugged. Cried.

“I’m still here,” Auguste said. “I’m still looking out for you.”

Laurent did not respond. Laurent, of course, could not hear him.

Damen kept his distance throughout this, watching Laurent with an expression that fluctuated between adoration and concern. When Laurent stood, Damen stepped up beside him and draped an arm around the back of his neck. The bandaged hand dangled over Laurent’s chest.

Laurent angled his eyes at it. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that,” he muttered, dashing a hand across his eyes.

Damen wiggled the hand a little. “Well, it still hurts.” 

Laurent tsked. “You’ve been stabbed more than once in your life, yet you’re bellyaching over a few tiny scratches?”

“It’s more than a _few tiny scratches._ They’re cut down to the bone. Apparently, your big brother is a lunatic. He’s willing to chop my fingers off just to protect you from one piddly sword.”

Laurent turned to look at him, brows arched.

Damen smiled.  “But I’d have gladly forfeited them for you,” he said, taking Laurent into his arms. He leaned in and kissed him.

At first, Laurent welcomed it, head tilting, back curving as he melted into Damianos’s arms. Then he abruptly pulled back, his face flushing as he glanced up at the statue.

“My brother is watching!” he hissed, thumping Damen on the shoulder.

Damen shrugged, and looked up at the statue. “Sorry, Auguste. We’ll call this revenge for nearly severing my fingers.”

He pulled Laurent close, hands sliding up his back. And then they were kissing again. Laurent’s rigidity lasted only seconds before he was malleable, sagging into Damen’s arms as though he needed the support to remain standing.

Auguste could only smile. He turned away and, as he had so many times before, decided to take an early leave.

He’d always wished for one more day with Laurent. One more day to tell him how proud he was.

But if that one day deprived Laurent of this, it was not worth it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it. I decided to keep the ending a little ambiguous (in terms of what caused the soul-swap) because I didn’t want to get too heavily involved in religion, etc. I also didn’t want things to get too cheesy. That’s surprisingly easy to do when writing a paranormal story, especially when you’re like me and your exposure to paranormal things is limited to, like, the movie Ghost :P I also think it works best when the reader uses his/her imagination.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments/love! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I’ve loved sharing it with you. I hope you enjoyed it! I’d like to write something else soon, but school is starting in like two weeks :(


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